“A puppy,” I lie. “For my daughter. Just picked him up. Threw some covers over the top so he didn’t get cold.”
He leans in closer to the truck, looking. A roar blooms in my ears: if Finch hears my voice right at the door, she might emerge.
“I knew it,” the man says. “I knew it was a puppy.” He adjusts his glasses. “For Christmas?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind?”
“Oh, he’s a Lab,” I say, glancing at the heap of blankets. Finch’s blond hair is poking out from beneath a corner of the blanket. “A yellow Lab.”
The old man is eyeing up my cart of supplies. “I had one when I was a boy. He was yellow, and we called him Patton, like the general.” He shifts his weight. “I don’t mean to overstep, but would you mind if I had a look?”
I attempt to clear the lump in my throat. “Well, to be honest with you, sir, he was awful upset about leaving his mama this morning, and I don’t want to rile him up more, getting him out here in the parking lot. It’d probably be best if we just head on home, no offense.”
He nods. “Of course. Poor thing just needs to get to your place and settle in.”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” he says, “you enjoy yourselves. You and your daughter. Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you.”
He hobbles away, shuffling across the pavement.
Close. Far too close. Just when it seemed like we were in the clear. I’d thought this was the safest plan, Finch hiding in the vehicle, safer than her coming with me into the store, safer than leaving her home, but this little incident is reminding me that we’re never safe. Not really.
Once the old man is fifty yards off, I open the truck door.
“Finch, stay down,” I say softly. “Just a few more minutes. I still have to unload the cart. You all right?”
“I’m cold. I have a cramp in my calf. It could be a deadly blood clot.”
“Sorry, sugar. Almost done.”
Once everything is packed, I take the cart back. I hold tight to the handle, prop one foot on the bottom, and with the other foot, give myself a good push. Sail, glide, the skinny wheels howling over the pockmarked pavement, the cool air on my cheeks.
I trot back to the truck, climb in, crank the heat, and drive toward home. Once we’re out of town, I tell Finch she can sit up. I turn on the radio and find a station that plays country music, which is strange to hear, guitars and drums and the banjo, I think, and a woman’s voice that is sweet and sad and twangy, like you always think of with country-music singers. I don’t know any of the words to these songs, all new, I suppose, but for the first time in years, I think about how I used to drive around and play the radio, and I knew the songs, not just the words, but I could anticipate the rises and drops and the way the music would turn. As I head out of Somersville toward the cabin, toward the gas station where we will make our final stop, the music on the old radio buzzing in and out, the winter sun casting a golden haze on everything, the sparse trees and the brown fields, I’m feeling triumphant—no, more than that. Jubilant. Giddy, even.
“One more stop, Finch. One more stop and then we’re home.”
“Can I go in with you this time?”
I debate this. The gas station is a rinky-dink place, a small square building, painted mint green and in the middle of nowhere. Plus, given what just happened at Walmart, taking Finch in doesn’t feel so unreasonable.
“I’ve never been in a store, Cooper. And it’s freezing in the truck.”
We’ll only be in there for a minute or two, and more than likely, there will be no surveillance cameras. It would mean the world to her.
“Please, Coop? Please?”
“If there’s no other cars in the parking lot, you can go in.”
“Yes!” She flutters her legs.
“And no talking, no matter what. Someone talks to you, just smile and look away. You got that?”
She presses her lips tight. Nods, eyes wide.
NINE
The only car at the gas station is the old green Ford Ranger that was there three hours earlier: the cashier, I assume. I pull up to the pump, tell Finch to climb out, and the two of us head in to prepay. Finch grips my hand, her palm sweaty with excitement.
Inside, the cashier has a name tag that says SHEILA, and even though it’s only midmorning, she is drinking a Mountain Dew and twirling a skein of licorice around her middle finger. Sheila is watching television on a tiny screen, The Price Is Right, and I can’t help but notice: where the heck is Bob Barker? Finch stands at the counter, staring. A lady with white hair is spinning some giant rotating thing, and the new host is grinning. Finch has never seen a television before.